


Punch Through the Air

by Zharena



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zharena/pseuds/Zharena
Summary: It's been a year. Lio copes or at least, tries to.
Relationships: Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos
Comments: 23
Kudos: 147





	Punch Through the Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLostSelkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLostSelkie/gifts).



> AAAAH December kicked my ass and then I got sick so this is like several weeks late but I'm really happy with how most of it came out! This is for [Snam](https://twitter.com/BurnishLio) on Twitter as part of the 2019 LioGalo Secret Santa Exchange. I hope you like it! I'll probably dive back in in the coming days to tidy up a couple of things but it's pretty much done.
> 
> The title comes from a song by [Mire Kay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XDH7vTVDTBc).

The summers in Promepolis are lethargic and humid, the kind where even the smallest of movements seem to suck every drop of energy from your body. Lio hates them, hates how the moisture in the air clings to his skin and drags his body to the ground. Hates how it fills him with a disgusting heat, a poor mimicry of the dry warmth that used to fill him before.

More than anything else, though, he hates how much the summer reminds him of that day, hates how the heat triggers the scent of charred flesh that never actually left his nose, how the cells in his body seem to combust in pinches when he has to weave through a tight alleyway. How he swears he can hear screams threading themselves through the crowds of musty city goers, all of them too caught up in their own thoughts to hear what he hears. 

He can’t quite call them hallucinations. They don’t feel quite real enough to be those. So he calls them phantoms, fragments of recollections that ghost along his psyche and ignite his senses. He prefers it this way, prefers referring to them as monsters; they feel more like something he can fight off. In his mind, he can still pull out his old armor, forge a sword, and charge.

His hand twitches as he drags it across a mint chain-link fence and traces the little dips in the metal. The light green paint is rubbery and bright against his pale skin and it grounds him, helps him slide the weight off his shoulders as his mind fills with happier memories. Remembers how momentous the opening of the structure behind it had been, how the ribbon had fallen apart so neatly between the scissors the interim governor had given him. How the immediate nights after had been filled with the smell of paint and children giggling in the grass as they’d paired together to paint the fence. 

Lio takes a step back and looks at the building behind it. It’s fifteen stories tall and made of plain gray slabs, one of the residential structures among many built for the displaced Burnish population. It’s not enough - it’s a hastily constructed structure of gray concrete and dark window frames, a prison that will likely fall apart in several decades time, but it’s something for now. His feels a twist in his chest as he thinks about the future, about how the officials promise that conditions will improve for them in time as they rebuilt the city and eventually build better housing. 

He bites his lip as a drop of sweat rolls down his temple; he doesn’t believe them, just as he doesn’t trust most of the general populace. They had been sympathetic to them in the wake of the Parnassus tragedy (to which he was forever grateful for), but it had quickly become evident that most people weren’t ready to drop their anti-Burnish sentiments. He - all of them - still have years of work ahead, years of yelling and tears and protesting. He just hopes he can do right by everyone.

There’s a silence that’s evident in the complex today, one that Lio continues to feel as he digs his hands into his pocket and walks, passing several Burnish housing complexes and businesses. He felt it in the office earlier, how Meis and Gueira and the rest of the staff they’d since taken on to address the needs of the Burnish now living in Promepolis. And he feels it in him, too, swimming around in the back of his mind. It’s why he’s not excited when he gets the text he’s so used to getting, why even the person he loves the most can’t do anything about it.

Lio takes the phone out of his pocket, opens the text from Galo, and bites his lip.

* * *

Tuesday is coffee night. Lio's never understood why they need to go out when they have a perfectly good roast in the house, but after his second attempt at protesting only resulted in Galo bringing home a sugary concoction of excessive proportions, he realized that some things just weren’t worth fighting. 

Tonight, Lio has his usual, a dark roast with just enough milk and sugar to keep it from being too rough on his empty stomach. Galo sits across from him pounding back the sweet spectacle, the specks of whipped cream from the drink dotting his lips as he goes on about Lucia’s most recent invention, a cheesy grin plastered on his face as he gets to the part where she almost blew up the firehouse.

“I wish I could be there,” is all Lio says, clinging to his cup. He feels a sadness well in his chest as he says it, a longing for another piece of his life he just isn’t allowed to have quite yet. He swallows it, just as he swallows every other difficult thought his brain lobs at him these days. Lio can’t open up that part just yet. He always tells himself that it’s because he has a duty to the former Burnish, a duty to make sure they’re all settled, healthy, and safe, before he can focus on his own needs. 

“Well, the jacket’s waiting for you when you’re ready.” 

Really, Lio knows he could manage, at least physically. No, he’s more scared, scared that if he unlocks that closed chest of memories and emotions, that if he finally stops clinging to his leader role as his only definition of himself, he’ll lose everything that remains of who he was. It feels wrong to worry about such things, especially considering how many Burnish had lost their lives over the years. How many would never know normalcy again. 

He tightens his grip around the mug. Even among the cushioning thrum of the cafe, he feels exposed, like he’s the only person there, and his heart beats heard in his chest to fill the silence. He feels like he did during those nights on the run, on the nights where he was so close to danger that even the wrong cadence of breath seemed to call tragedy to him.

“Lio?”

“Hm?”

He doesn’t realize how wrapped up in his mind he is until Galo places a hand on his shoulder and he jumps. Galo frowns and tries to pull his hand back, upset at having startled Lio, but Lio places his hand over Galo’s before he can pull away. He almost lets out a sigh of relief as his fingers relax on his shoulder and give him a gentle squeeze.

“You zoned out again.”

“Oh.”

“You want to go home?”

Lio bites his lip. He doesn’t want the night to end early but if he’s being honest with himself, he feels  _ off _ , and the thought of going back to their apartment sounds better than anything else right now. 

“Is it okay if we do?”

Galo makes a motion with his head and starts to get up from the table.

“Come on, then.”

* * *

They gather their things, pour the remainder of Lio’s coffee into a to-go cup, and head out, Galo’s hand in his. Lio’s happy when he chooses the long way back - as much as he wants to be at home, walking the extra few blocks help him release some of the tension that’s been building in him all day. 

It’s not enough by any means, but the worst of the haze dissipates. Suddenly, he remembers the too-full coffee in his hand and takes a sip, the liquid lukewarm as it slips past his lips. Galo realizes he’s starting to make his way through the fog and speaks, guiding him the rest of the way out. Back to the world. 

“Hey,” he says softly, voice almost vanishing among the whir of Promepolis. “Can I ask you something?”

Lio makes a noise of affirmation as he takes another sip.

“Are you, like-” Galo motions at the air with his hands, trying to find the word he wants to use. “-Okay? You’ve been zoning out a lot lately.”

“‘M fine,” he says into the plastic lid. “Just working a lot.”

  
  


“Yeah, you have a lot between the grants and speech you’re working on, don’t you? Plus the other stuff.” 

“It’s not that much.”

A look of annoyance crosses Galo’s face for a moment, not happy about Lio’s answer. 

“You’re still working on housing, right? And other resources, like stuff for the kids who were out of school for so long.”

“Yeah, and for the adults, too.” Adults like him who’d been on the run since at least their teens, adults who never had the chance to develop any real professional skills. Lio’s learning his the hard way, wading through the thigh-deep mud of bureaucratic negotiations, cutting his way through thick vines of double-crossing and manipulation. It’s exhausting, and it’s only a portion of his day. “Plus we’re still working to reunite people with their families and place kids who have no one to turn to.”

For everything he says, though, there are probably millions of others, things like acquiring identification for those who haven’t had any in thirty years, job placement, healthcare access. And that didn’t even include undoing the psychological scars left behind on the rest of the world, the rest of the people who had feared or hated the Burnish for so long. His head spins thinking about all of it. 

“Lio,” Galo says, bringing him back to Earth. “You still have the card I gave you, right?”

“Yeah. It’s in my wallet.” 

“Okay.”

“I told you I’d call when I was ready,” Lio reminds, “But I’m okay for now.”

He offers Galo a small smile of reassurance. Reassurance of what, Lio’s not sure. That things aren’t as bad on the inside as Galo thinks they are, that he’s as okay as he says he is? Lio gulps, wondering if he’s doing it more for his own reassurance than Galo’s. 

“I don’t believe you, but all right.” He says, squeezing Lio’s hand as they come to a stop in front of their building. “I’ll just have to keep an eye on you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have no idea, actually,” Galo laughs, pulling Lio close and running his fingers through his hair. “But someone’s gotta look out for you.”

“Idiot,” Lio mutters, pressing his ear to his chest and listening to the taller man’s heartbeat. He swears it speeds up, a hard thump powered solely by Lio existing there. “I can take care of myself, you know.” 

Galo wraps his arms around him and runs his fingers through his hair. His fingers are gentle as they trace the too-long strands growing from his head, playing with the ends as he reaches the bottom. It feels protective and warm, giving off a sensation of safety that Lio hasn’t felt in years, and he melts into the touch. 

“I know,” Galo says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I know.”

* * *

They settle into their respective worlds for the rest of the evening: Galo in their room playing a video game, and Lio at their dining table, his tablet propped up and a thin portable keyboard at his fingertips. After a few hours of speechwriting, Lio breathes, stretches himself over the back of the chair, and gets up to retrieve a plastic container of leftovers from the refrigerator.

He leans against the counter as the food reheats in the microwave, sliding one of his socked feet across the floor, relishing in the smoothness of the wood beneath his skin. If there was one thing above all else since giving up his life on the run, it was the feeling of taking off his shoes for the day. It lent a finality to it all, something more concrete than the rising and setting of the sun and a sparse sleep schedule. 

Speaking of sleep, the darkness coming from their room tells him Galo is out cold. Lio leaps back to the microwave before the timer goes off, not wanting to wake Galo and sit through another lecture on eating at consistent hours. He thinks he’s going to be successful until he overestimates his jump, sliding across the floor and falling unceremoniously on his ass. 

Twenty minutes and a few  _ tuts _ from Galo later, he’s  _ finally _ stuffing his face with grilled chicken and rice, the last of their meal prep session from the other day. It’s missing the extra flare he normally likes, but no matter how bland the food he’s eating is, he can never seem to wrap his head around the fact that he’s eating an actual, full meal. 

Sort of like how he’s still not used to having a real home to go back to, one filled with trinkets and memories that aren’t necessarily his but are now part of his life all the same. He bites his lip as he mulls over the words he’s written down, the words that make up the speech he’ll give in memory of the Burnish that lost their lives as a result of the Prometech Engine later that week, swallowing the rice in his mouth. It goes down his throat in a lump, scratching at the walls of his esophagus.  _ Begging to be freed. _

He stops himself there, grabbing his glass of water and flushing the food down.

On his right is a stack of papers listing hundreds of names and ages, most of who had perished the year prior. He’s thankful he doesn’t have to read all of them -  _ Does that make me selfish _ , he wonders - isn’t sure he would be able to even if he tried. Several volunteers, handpicked by Meis and Gueira, were chosen to assist in reading out the names. They’d gone over the steps the other day: Lio and several others would make speeches before the reading of the names commenced, to be started Gueira, followed by Meis, then the volunteers, each reading in twenty-name sets. Lio would finish out the sets, make another short speech to be followed by some closing remarks by the interim governor. 

Lio flips the stack over and separates the last sheet of paper from it, reading the names. He recognizes some of them from the last group of Burnish he freed from prison and others still from groups he’d assisted over his brief tenure as Mad Burnish leader. There’s little things he remembers about each of them: the sparkle in that child’s eyes as they looked out at the stars, the cry of happiness that man let out when a group of people that weren’t out to hurt him had found him, the stories of growing up pre-World Blaze that old woman had shared, recollections of a peace that had felt impossible to reach again.  _ A peace that could be as simple as sitting at your table, your headphones plugged while you type away _ , he thinks. 

He tries to remember the name of one of the songs the old woman used to sing, a metal anthem from the simpler times that he used to blast back when his idea of rebellion consisted of buying motorcycle gear and cutting class when his parents weren’t looking. The melody is fuzzy in his brain but he manages to find it after a few minutes, and navigates to the streaming service he’s listening to to request it. 

When it comes on, he closes his eyes, the lyrics becoming clearer as his memories resurface: the large house he used to live in, the lakeside cottage his family used to vacation at, the type of social circle he’d kept only due to his parents’ will. He knew he was privileged even then, but he wasn’t happy by any means. The massive walls had only served to amplify his parents’ arguments, and almost all of his friends had clung to him due to his family’s social status. Really, the only thing he had any good memories of was the cottage, the only place where his family ever seemed to really be at peace. It’s distant, but he can still recall the excitement he used to feel when he’d see the highway signs, how he’d always see the town listed below Detroit until finally,  _ finally _ they would reach it. 

They were on vacation when it happened. He was sixteen, his lips still buzzing from his first kiss just a few hours before - a peck from a local shop owner’s son - when the whispers started. Of course, back then he had no way of knowing that they were actually from an alien lifeform that had taken him on as a host. Really, outside of the kiss, the day wasn’t much different from the others: his parents had fought a little, his dad had drank some bourbon, and he’d taken off on his own for a bit. Even now, he still has no idea what triggered his first spasm. Maybe it was the cumulative stress. Or something.

Lio’s never spoken to Galo about that day, about how much he’d cried, about how he’d almost burned down several shops in the process, about how alone he felt. Maybe he will, one day. But maybe he won’t, and that’s all right, too.

Right?

* * *

It’s two in the morning when he finally stumbles into bed and cocoons himself in the blanket Galo’s set aside for him. Four hours will suffice, he tells himself. He’ll make do with the energy he has, as always.

There’s a restlessness in his limbs though, an eagerness to move and keep working, working, working, until there’s nothing left for him to accomplish. Frustrated at his body’s inability to _rest, for once_ _in his life_ , he scowls and buries his face in the pillow, praying for sleep to come as he closes his eyes. 

* * *

He wakes up two hours later gasping for breath, the phantom electricity of the Prometech Engine rocketing through his body, leaving gooseflesh behind in its wake. Lio wraps his arms around himself and trembles, glancing around the room. He’d been trapped inside again, the walls of the core so close to his body he had barely more than an inch to move, and he’d been forced to watch as each Burnish dropped from their fuel cells. First came the child, the man, the old woman, their bodies, their lives reduced to gray, translucent ash. Then there was Meis, Gueira, their screams scattered to the wind as it whipped up and took them, too. And finally, someone he’d failed to save once before, silently writhing as she transformed into sprinkles of onyx, gleaming brightly under the engine’s light. All Lio could do was listen silently, powerless as the machine ripped his own voice away.

Lio buries his face in his hands as he tries to even himself out, burying the lump in his throat that threatens to burst. It’s too dark to see anything, and that almost makes it worse, but he doesn’t want to worry Galo by turning the light on. So he calms himself then and there, surprised at the half-sobs that come out of his throat, as if he had forgotten that he had only been dreaming. That his silence hadn’t been real, that in reality, he’d screamed loud enough to shake the sky and stars above it. 

He freezes as Galo stirs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Even in the darkness, Lio can see the spikes of his hair jutting out in every direction.  _ Cute _ , if he could call a man that towers over him that. 

“Li?” he whispers

“Just a bad dream. I’m fine,” he says curtly, though he’s not convinced of the second part. “Go back to sleep.”

But Galo sees through him, just like he always does and wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him down. Lio lands softly on the sheets next to him, the tips of their noses hovering close to each other. 

“Only if you do, too,” Galo whispers, placing a hand on his cheek and cracking a smile in the darkness, one that Lio can’t see but can still feel through everything. 

“Well, I guess we’re staying awake, then.”

“Anything you say, big boss.”

Lio lets out a breathy laugh as he leans into Galo’s touch, feeling himself relax beneath it. Galo rubs his thumb over his cheek slowly, pressing soothing circles into the smooth skin. It’s strange, in a way, how protected he feels around him, how Galo manages to do it in a way that’s tender, but doesn’t make him feel fragile, even when he’s at his most vulnerable. And when he leans in to kiss him, he realizes just how much he appreciates it, how much he  _ loves _ Galo.

But no matter how much he loves him, no matter how safe Galo makes him feel, it doesn’t stop  _ those  _ memories and pain and  _ guilt _ from intruding, and as his eyes close, the question that’s on his mind echoes with such intensity, he swears he says it out loud.

_ Is it okay for me to have this?  To have you, after everything? _

* * *

Lio wakes up at 6:30 AM, the same time every day. It's weird keeping a schedule now, just as it's weird for him to wear a button down shirt and dress pants to work and live among a set of walls. Structure is weird, and he's not sure he likes it.

He drags himself into the bathroom and turns up the hot water in the shower higher than it should probably go, disappearing into the cloud of steam that quickly surrounds his limbs. Showers, or even semi-regular bathing had been a novelty to him for so long that when he finally settled in after the initial cleanup work was completed, he began setting aside large chunks of time in his schedule to just stand there and let the hot water drip down his skin. The heat is nothing like the flames he once fostered, but it makes the buzzing in his head stop for a little while.

Lio stands there for ten, maybe fifteen minutes before remembers that he has to wash up. He realizes then that he had forgotten to pick up new body wash on his way home yesterday, among other things, and reaches up to the top shelf of their metal organizer to knock Galo’s down. It lands at his feet with a hard thunk, the open bottle releasing a whiff of evergreen as it makes impact. 

When he emerges ten minutes later, his skin smells familiar: sylvan and mossy, like how the world did back in his early days on the run, back when he’d spent his days stumbling through unknown forests, starving and fighting to gain control over his powers. There’s a detachment he feels when he reflects on those days, almost as if it isn’t really him in those memories, as if the boy who had cried beneath a canopy of trees after weeks on his feet couldn’t have survived past that night, let alone seven years. That that boy would become the leader of the Mad Burnish - a group he’d always been taught to fear - and guide his people to freedom; that he would ultimately save the world, but lose so many people along the way.

He’s happy for what he has now but sometimes, it doesn’t feel fair. 

Lio slides the drawer of his dresser open with a grunt, the old wood squeaking as he pulls it to him. Despite having space to build up a collection of clothes, he still lives simply: a few pairs of pants and enough shirts to get by, all of which fit into one drawer. Part of him knows it’s due to habit; he was so used to having few things that even now, he still doesn’t own more than he needs. But he knows it’s also because he’s terrified - terrified that this permanence is ephemeral, that someone from Freeze Force is going to show up to their door and rip him away from Galo, from this place, even though that unit hasn’t existed since the second Great World Blaze. 

He slips on a pair of briefs and buttons up a black shirt before shuffling through the pairs of pants, none of which he’s particularly fond of. Not like his old garments, the armor he wore when he wasn’t wearing metal forged from flame. He’s adjusted to it, mostly - he’s still on thin ice when it comes to negotiating with government officials, and he refuses to risk the safety of his people just so he can wear whatever he wants. 

Even so, he can’t bring himself to get rid of the clothes he was wearing the day of the Prometech Engine Disaster. They sit in his drawer alongside his other pants, the memory of who he was sticking out starkly against the more businesslike apparel. He can’t avoid them when he opens the sparse drawer, but he tries not to think about it.

Today, though, he bites his lip and takes them out, running his fingers across the weather worn garment, inspecting the wisps of thread stick out from the seams, the dry patches of leather are peeling here and there like skin after a sunburn. There’s still dust embedded in them from their fight with Kray, too, white ashes of sheetrock from his last day as the formal leader of Mad Burnish. 

In a way, tucking it into in his drawer had been like putting away in old uniform: no longer of use, but too sentimental not to keep. Even now, he finds himself missing the protection it gave him from the rest of the world, the definition of who he was. 

Lio glances at the clock, then to the mirror, holding his breath. He has a few extra minutes, he could try them on right now. It’s a silly impulse, one he knows he probably shouldn’t listen to, but he does anyway, approaching the mirror and sliding the pants on.

Lio figures out quickly that he can’t get them to close around his hips, but he’s stubborn enough to try closing them for ten minutes before he gives up and collapses back onto the bed. By the time Galo comes in to check on him, Lio’s face is blazing red with defeat. 

“Lio?”

"My old pants don't fit anymore," he grumbles, kicking one of his feet against the boxspring for added dramatic effect. 

“Why did you even put those on? Even _ I  _ know you can’t wear them in your line of work.”

“Stop sounding practical, you’re scaring me.” Lio says. He covers his face with his hand and drags it down. “I was just curious. I haven’t worn them in a year and wanted to see if they would still fit.”

"Hmm." Galo frowns and rests his chin in his hand, thinking of what to do next. It’s a rare sight, one that Lucia sometimes places bets with the others on -  _ how many times will Galo think before he does something this week  _ \- but Lio knows that it means he has something mischievous planned. “Well, I think you have your answer.”

Galo leans down and ruffles his hair, which Lio accepts with all the grace of a cat who's just had a bucket of water dumped on him, swatting it away with a scowl. Galo gives him a cheeky grin in return and runs his hand down Lio's arm, then to his stomach, wiggling his fingers along the way. Lio stiffens his jaw, trying to quell the laugh that's building in his gut, but his body betrays him before long and he flinches. He retaliates by taking hold of Galo's hand in both of his, clutching it so tightly to his chest that when Galo tries to tug it away, he sends Lio flying off the bed and straight into his arms.

"Smooth," Lio mutters, defeated.

Galo pecks the tip of his nose and spins him around to face the mirror, rolling the hem of Lio's shirt up to his ribs. He shivers as Galo places a hand on his bare hip and drums his fingers against it, humming; he’s warm, too warm, and it takes all of his willpower not to immediately melt into the touch as the taller man rests his chin on top of his head.

"You look good, you know," he says. "I can’t see your ribs anymore.” 

"That's not it," Lio frowns, unsatisfied by Galo's answer. “It's not about my weight.”

How does he even begin to explain his thought process to Galo? That he was essentially playing dress-up, hoping that he could return to who he was if for a minute? It feels too childish to even  _ say,  _ and if his face weren’t already red, he’s sure it would have bloomed in embarrassment. 

."Galo doesn’t say anything for a while. 

"It's okay to be upset about not being able to fit into your favorite pair of pants anymore, you know. Happens to everyone. Hell, I cried when I tore my favorite onesie."

_ What? _

"Since when do you wear-"

"I stopped after I flexed so hard I tore the only one I owned."

"That's...kind of impressive, actually." 

Galo grins.

“A few people have told me that. I don’t get it, though. How would you feel if you destroyed your favorite shirt?”

Lio smiles as Galo’s hands flicker down to his stomach and gather a roll of skin there, pinching it for a moment before it slips out of his fingers. There’s a thin layer of fat over his ribs that wasn’t there before, one that’s not quite enough to change his silhouette but still makes him look different than he did a year ago. It’s a subtle change, one that only he and Galo and the Burnish who’d been in his company before really recognize, one that comes along with the fading of dark circles under his eyes and the plumping of his cheeks. In some ways, he’s happier than he’s ever been.

Still, he wonders where the old Lio Fotia went, the one whose ribs protruded from his skin, who almost always went to sleep hungry when he actually had the opportunity  _ to _ , who ran himself into the ground just to make sure everyone else was safe. Only one of those three things are true now, and the thought of not knowing the rest of who this new Lio is terrifies him.

“Stay with me, Lio,” Galo whispers. “You’re zoning out again.”

“Sorry,” Lio says. 

“Ssh, it’s okay,” he says, placing his hands back on Lio’s hips. “Can I tell you something, though?”

“Yeah,” he manages. 

“Sometimes we outgrow things,” he says simply. His voice wavers as if he’s summoning his words from deep within, from a vulnerable place that Lio’s almost certainly seen but can’t quite define. “Sometimes that’s scarier than being used as fuel for a warp engine, or finding out your role model is actually a piece of garbage. It happens. We can’t expect things to stay the same forever.”

“I know.” 

“All we can do is accept who we are now, even if we don’t totally know who that person is.” He tucks a lock of hair behind Lio’s hair, runs his knuckles down the side of his cheek. “So what if you’re not running down the highway a hundred miles above the speed limit in a motorcycle, on your way to rescue someone, or getting arrested just so you can break a bunch of people out of prison? You’re still Lio. You still put everyone before yourself, and you’re still a fighter. You just fight differently now.”

“Everything’s so different from how it was.”

“I know, Li. But you’re going to be okay. You always are.” He pauses. “You just might need a little extra help this time around.”

* * *

He and Galo go out the night after Lio finishes editing his speech, two days before the memorial service. Lio clings tightly to Galo as they ride his motorcycle out of Promepolis, guilt stirring in his gut - he shouldn’t be out here taking a break, not when so many people are going to be mourning soon if they aren’t already. But Galo had  _ insisted _ , saying he’d be better off if he got some air before everything went down. Lio knew that his mind was made up, that he’d be dragging him out of their apartment whether he liked it or not. 

As they leave the city behind them, all he can hear is the roar of the engine in his ears, how it drowns out his other thoughts and quells the twisting feeling in his stomach, if only for a moment.

They eventually stop about an hour outside of Promepolis, by the remains of Deus Prometh’s old laboratory. Galo leads the way, shining a narrow path in front of them while Lio carries their gear in an old backpack. Lio doesn’t like how small their strip of light is, how easily it gets lost in the mass of trees and brush. It makes him feel like he’s leading groups of Burnish beneath a blanket of stars again, guided only by the flickers glowing from their fingertips and the murmurs of the woods. Vulnerable.

Galo’s breath hitches as they make their way around the perimeter, the hollowed-out mouth of the lake gaping at them from beyond the fence. Even though he can barely see his face, Lio senses a shift in the air. Galo tightens his hand around his. 

“I miss coming here,” he whispers, trying not to sound too sentimental and failing miserably. There isn’t an ounce of regret in his voice, but there’s a subtle undercurrent of melancholy, one that threatens to sweep both of them away if they aren’t careful. Lio knows about the lake; about how it was Galo’s  _ place _ , a safety net he could retreat to when things would become too overwhelming or agitating. He hasn’t had a special place, not for a long time now, and an ache swells inside him as he wonders whether he’ll ever grow roots like that again. He squeezes Galo’s hand back, pulling them out of the current and on. 

A shadow, evident despite the darkness, looms above them before long. They don’t go inside - Galo promised they wouldn’t unless they needed to - but Lio finds himself fighting a lump in his throat, anyway. They both have a lot to thank that cave for: their first real conversation, their lives, the safety of the Burnish. But that cave was also the place where Thyma died. The place where he’d tried so desperately to breathe a spark into a body of embers.

He still hasn’t forgiven himself. 

Galo had gone over the trip with him before they’d left: they would only go near the cave, not in it. His reasoning was surprisingly logical: the area near the cave was conveniently one of the best spots for stargazing and one of the few remaining landmarks in the forest they could still easily access, making it difficult for them to get lost in the dark. Lio agreed, but only after making Galo promise that they wouldn’t go in the cave unless they had to. He’s not ready to deal with that grief. Not yet. 

They decide on a spot about twenty feet away from the side of the cave, one with smooth ground and soft grass. Lio swings the backpack off his shoulders and drops it on the ground, kneeling down to take out the lantern and flick it on. He feels himself calm down as the light fights away the brunt of the darkness, illuminating Galo beside him. He can see the forest now, can see each and every branch trembling in the breeze. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Fine,” Lio says. It’s not a lie, not entirely, but there’s still a strangeness clinging to his bones, a feeling that he shouldn’t be  _ out here _ . That he  _ should _ be seeking out a place to hide, one where he won’t be seen; where he can eat whatever meager canned food he’s managed to steal. But then he remembers that he’s not a vigilante anymore and there’s a home for him to go back to - one where the fridge is bursting with colorful goods. It takes all of his self-control not to get up and just  _ run _ . “Just thinking.”

It’s only been a year since the Promare left, but for Lio, it may as well be a lifetime. 

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not tonight. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. Just remember that you can talk to me, you know?”

“I know.” Lio smiles. “I’ll let you know if I need to tap out.”

Galo ruffles his hair and turns his attention to setting up for the night, knowing not to press much further. Lio will talk to him when he’s ready, however long that may take. Galo takes a sheet out of their bag and spreads it out, making sure to smooth out all the corners and by the time Lio spins around, Galo’s already sprawled out on the ground, motioning for Lio to join him. 

He reaches for one of Lio’s hands and brushes his thumb along the knuckles of his thin fingers, checking in on him. Lio closes his eyes, thinks. He’s okay, he reminds himself, and squeezes back. Galo tugs him down, enveloping him in a hug as he hits the ground, hair fanning out across the cheap polyester. 

They settle into a comfortable snuggle beneath pointing out constellations, stars, and planets. A wave of nostalgia settles over Lio; he hasn’t been stargazing in ages, not since the night before Freeze Force tracked him down for the last time. He reminisces with Galo about how he’d sit outside with some of the Burnish kids, sometimes with an old astronomy book he’d found somewhere along the way, pointing out the different objects in the sky. It’s one of the few things he genuinely misses about being on the road, being able to appreciate the vastness of the universe, the thousands of stars out there. 

Lio stays still for a while, melting into the warmth and safety of Galo’s embrace as they pluck stars from the sky, whispering stories to each other under the cool night air. Galo tells him about the first time he’d gone after he’d lost his parents, how Kray had driven him up and surprised him with his favorite blanket, miraculously torn from the clutches of ember; how Kray had sat with him patiently beside a flickering lantern, watching as he leapt into the air, trying to steal starlight. Galo wonders aloud what Kray thought of him then; if he hated him, even as a child.

It’s not the first time Kray has come up in conversation; so many of his formative memories are interwoven with the man that it’s almost impossible for Galo not to bring him up from time to time. Lio found it jarring at first - to hear the monster who hunted his people humanized so. But he also knows it’s better for Galo  _ to _ talk about him than to not. To talk about Galo is to talk about Kray, even if the mention of his name makes his blood boil. 

After all, Galo’s processing, too. Lio can’t hate him for that. Can’t hate him for still clinging to those happy moments with  _ him _ , for having trouble recontextualizing someone who was once the brightest spot in the darkest moments of his life. 

Lio rolls onto his side and props himself on an elbow, reaching over to brush Galo’s bangs away from his face, the lantern light pulsing in time with his heart. Galo’s quiet now, an intensity in his eyes as Lio trails his fingers down his cheek and cups his chin. Lio gets it, then - that feeling of reverence, of being Galo’s entire world, and though Lio’s muscles strain from the odd angle he’s at, he bears the pain, just as he always has. He has to. He’s Galo’s beacon now, just as Galo is his.

He bends down and leans his forehead against Galo’s, shivering as their skin makes contact. Galo’s warm, so much warmer than he runs these days, and he’s almost tempted to dash back over to their backpack and wrap himself in the fleece blanket they’d brought just so he can be perfectly in sync with him, just as they were that day. If Lio had to pick a way to describe how fighting with Galo felt, it would be  _ freeing. _ That day had been all about moving forward, about surviving, about setting ablaze the matches of his past and present and simply  _ burning.  _ But there’s still so much healing left to go, so many things hidden beneath layers of duct tape and dust that he wonders if they’ll ever make it back to that point. 

Then again, maybe no one’s really meant to get to that point. Maybe it’s something only achievable through a once-in-a-lifetime concoction of adrenaline and giant robots and life-or-death battles. Maybe all they can do now is live and cope with everything life has thrown at them, however that may be.

As Lio leans in to kiss Galo, he thinks he may know where to start, but not how to continue. 

* * *

On the day of the memorial, Lio wakes up at his normal time, his chest heavier than normal. He stayed up the night before reading his speech over and over, his tongue tapping against the roof of his mouth until it turned numb as he read the names in silence. Even after a year of attending meetings and processing paperwork, he’s still not used to this level of preparation and precision, and he only knows the reason why he’s doing it is so he won’t break on stage. 

He gets up and drags himself over to the bathroom. Rubs the sleep from his eyes again and again, but it doesn’t seem to make him any less lethargic. Turns on the shower and hops in, then realizes he’s still dressed and groans, wondering what’s wrong with him. Maybe his brain’s finally short-circuiting, overloaded with nothing and anything and everything. 

Lio wipes the condensation off the mirror, steels himself over the sink, and takes a deep breath.  _ You can do this _ , he tells himself.  _ Just a few more hours.  _

The rest of the morning passes in a blur. He vaguely recalls properly washing up after, then exiting the shower to find his clothes set aside on his bed, neatly pressed. Lio doesn’t remember buttoning his shirt or eating breakfast, but he does remember Galo putting his hand on his shoulder and reminding him that he doesn’t have to be strong today, that it’s a day of mourning - not just for the other Burnish, but for him, as well. Lio disagrees; if he falls apart up there, who else are the Burnish going to be able to look to? 

Ignis offers to drive them, reasoning that the last thing Lio needs is a noisy motorcycle announcing his entrance. It offers them a little extra privacy, which Lio is thankful for, but at the same time it makes the rest of his thoughts too loud, too distracting, and all he can think about on the way over is the list of names he has to read through, all of those lives unfairly taken away. Does he really deserve to be up there, when he failed so many of them? 

Galo squeezes his hand. Tells him to stay with him, on the buildings passing them by, on his breathing. Lio does as he’s told, counts his exhales by the number of brick structures they pass. Squeezes Galo’s hand back. Reminds them both that he’s okay, that he can do this. 

He just might need Galo to catch him later.

When they arrive, Meis and Gueira escort them to an area behind the stage, each wrapping an arm around Lio. Vaguely, he’s aware of Galo whispering something to them, of orders being given out around him, of stepping out onto a stage and gazing upon the rest of the Burnish and making a speech, but his head feels so fuzzy, like it’s detached from the rest of his body, that he can’t process any of it. 

It’s not until he’s back up there again, reading that final set of names, that the static finally clears and all that he knows is a bubbling pain in his ribs, one that threatens to boil over as he closes in on the end. But he needs to press on, needs to turn that heat up higher and higher-

He holds on until he doesn’t, choking up as Thyma’s name leaves his lips and turning the heat back down as he realizes it’s over. Lio takes a deep breath, gazes at the solemn audience. At the thousands of people still relying on him, still looking to him with the same reverence that Galo has. Realizes that time hasn’t stopped for them, either; that all of them are enduring, and that he needs to do the same. 

Lio steps back from the podium and swallows his tears just long enough to make it back home. Galo doesn’t say a word until they make it back to the apartment, stopped in front of their door. He’s about to unlock it when Lio stops him, desperate for one last ounce of control before he bursts.

“Let me do it,” Lio says, fishing out his keys and sorting through them like a deck of cards, but they all look the same. Why are they all the same?

“That one, Li,” Galo reminds, pointing at the bright silver key in the middle, the only one that’s different from the rest. 

“Right.  _ Right. _ ”

Lio exhales and slides it into the lock, hands shaking so much he can barely keep it straight. Galo lays a hand on top of his,  _ steady _ , and twists the lock open with him. Fingers interlock with Lio’s own and he leads them inside, sitting them both down on the couch and pulling him into an embrace. That bubble from before returns to Lio’s throat, simmering under Galo’s reassurances. 

“You did so well today,” Galo whispers. 

Lio leans into his embrace, fighting back a sob as Galo encourages him. 

“You’ve been through so much.”

“So have you.”

“But today’s not about me.” Galo presses a kiss to his temple. “It’s about the Burnish, and last I checked, that included you.”

Lio makes a noise that can only be described as somewhere between a sob and laughter; a gasp that shakes his entire body and threatens to tear open the walls he’s built for himself. So he does what Galo’s taught him - to listen for his voice, to stay in the present.

“I love you so much, Li,” he says. “You’re so strong, but you don’t have to be. Not right now. I’ve got you, so just let everything out.”

And if that present takes an axe to those walls, then he’ll ride the surge out.

* * *

When Lio wakes up for the second time that day, it’s to a warm blanket draped over his skin, a splitting headache, and the smell of pizza delivery. A glass of water and pink pill sit on the coffee table across from him. Groaning, he sits up, places the ibuprofen on his tongue, and downs the glass of water. Unbuttons the collar of his dress shirt to make himself a little more comfortable and takes his wallet out of his pocket before joining Galo at the counter. 

“Hey,” Galo greets him, munching on a slice of margherita. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Lio says, opening the flap of the wallet and taking one of the business cards inside out. He takes a greasy slice for himself but doesn’t touch it. “Don’t know how long it’ll last.”

“Taking me up on that suggestion?”

Lio stares at the card for the therapist as if it were the key to a mythical land, memorizing the number. He offers Galo a small smile before digging in.

“Yeah,” he says, wiping off a speck of sauce the slice leaves behind on his face. “I think I’m ready to keep going.” 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to easy_yase who made this [awesome art](https://twitter.com/Easy_yase/status/1228529386619637760?s=20) of the pants scene! Thank you so much ;w;
> 
> As always, feel free to follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/zharena2). Thank you for your continued support!


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